


I'm a Big Squid Now

by Lauralot



Series: HYDRA's A+ Parenting [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack, Dammit Westfahl, Diapers, Embarrassment, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Humor, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HYDRA's technical team gets sick of cleaning up STRIKE's messes and come up with a creative solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a Big Squid Now

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1504.html?thread=1575392#cmt1575392) on the HYDRA Trash meme: _Bucky in diapers_.
> 
> There are no bodily fluids in this fic, but there is talk of them. There's also embarrassment, although not as much humiliation as you might expect because it turns out I'm soft-hearted like that.

Rumlow doesn’t notice until Rollins chokes.

The mission has yet to begin; they’re headed to the lockers to get their gear on and Rumlow has his face buried in the mission dossier, teeth grinding. He’s wondering if he’s done something to piss off Secretary Pierce lately—without the Force on their side or a heaping helping of fairy dust, there’s no way this extraction will be bloodless—when Rollins seizes up beside him and makes a sound like a wounded cow.

“The hell?” Rumlow asks, but Rollins just doubles over and, shaking, points to the asset.

The Winter Soldier stands in the center of the room, half dressed, his tactical pants and non-mission clothing folded neatly on the bench beside him. He’s fastening the straps of his vest. He’s alone, which is against regulation and someone on the tech team is getting a write up, but that’s currently beside the fucking point. And the point is that the asset’s in diapers.

In and of itself, that’s not remarkable. The rookies always giggle to themselves the first time they see the asset suit up, but it’s the most practical option. He’s usually thawed out for long stakeouts or heavy combat. Time-sensitive missions with no room for distractions. Besides, any soldier who’s seen combat has pissed themselves at least once from either physical stress, pain, or fear. It’s fight or flight. Might as well avoid ammonia itching down the legs when the inevitable occurs.

But the asset’s standard undergarments are MAGs, which look like thick white boxers and have the most dignity that diapers allow. He’s not in a MAG now. He’s in fucking pull-ups.

Pull-ups, Rumlow realizes as he begins to question his perception of reality, that are decorated in pink polka dots. With a big pink octopus at the center of the asset’s crotch. With a bow on its head and its tentacles framing a outline of the Captain America shield.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he croaks.

The asset’s face tinges pink, as though he remembers he should feel shame but he can’t remember why.

“The fuck,” Rumlow repeats, because those words are cycling through his mind like an engine turning over. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Dressing for the mission,” the asset says, though he’s stopped now, standing at attention.

“The fuck are you _wearing_?”

From the corner of his eye, Rumlow sees Rollins sink to the floor, convulsing with silent laughter, hands clamped over his mouth.

Eyes downcast, maybe trying to think of a safe answer in the face of the commander’s anger, the asset doesn’t speak.

“Take those off,” Rumlow demands. “ _Now_.” Whoever’s joke this is, STRIKE’s not about to topple a government with the asset in training pants. Not on Rumlow’s watch. Even if it is hilarious. The rookies need a healthy fear of the asset and a respect for Rumlow’s authority, and this sure as hell won’t aid either.

The asset mumbles something that sounds suspiciously close to “like the colors.”

“Use your words, princess,” Rumlow snaps.

Rollins is cackling out loud now, his mirth echoing off the walls.

Face flushed again, the asset tilts his head toward Rumlow’s locker. “That’s all there is.”

It doesn’t really surprise Rumlow, when he stalks to the locker and throws it open, that his pack’s been replaced with a diaper bag. It does surprise him that they make diaper bags with squids on them. He’s back to feeling stunned nothingness—along with the start of a throbbing headache, _shut up Rollins_ —when he opens it to find more of the same pull-ups alongside his gear. It strikes him that the tech team had this shit mass-produced. God willing, whatever company supplied them has been torched.

There’s also a note:

_Hello, Commander!_

_Tech’s sick of changing your baby and the asset’s sick of diaper rash, so we’ve created a simple guide to prevent you from being a negligent parent! Shield visible: asset’s dry. Shield missing (get it, it’s an educational metaphor too! Hail HYDRA.): get out of the line of fire and take out the changing pad. And don’t forget the powder, that’s important._

_—W._

_P.S. – When we have to account for this at the annual budget meeting, we’re blaming you._

“Dammit, Westfahl,” Rumlow mutters, crumpling the paper in his hands. Yeah, he leaves the asset’s hygiene to the tech team whenever it’s avoidable. He’s got enough figurative shit to do without keeping track of the asset’s liquid intake. And it’s not like the asset ever mentions it: whether it’s programming, pride, or embarrassment, he keeps his mouth shut.

And now the tech team’s gone and emasculated Rumlow by proxy, on the eve of what’s looking like the worst mission of the past decade. He’s seeing red, itching for something to hurt. If the asset gives him the slightest provocation, he’s going to—

There’s a clicking sound to his left. Rollins, his face stained with tears, has recovered enough to pull out his phone and start snapping pictures.

Rumlow backhands him and the bastard doesn’t even flinch. “Jack, what the fuck?”

“I’m immortalizing the moment,” Rollins explains, still trembling.

The asset’s gaze is very, deliberately fixed on the floor. Rumlow considers his options. He can bend over and take this and plot his revenge once they make it to extraction alive. He can make the asset go commando and deal with the hours of whimpering after the asset inevitably pisses himself during their stakeout. Or he can hit Rollins again. He takes the third option.

“Hey!” Rollins rubs at his jaw. “That one hurt. What’s your problem?”

“What’s _your_ problem? The hell are those pictures even _for_ , your personal wank collection?”

“I’m putting them on the Intranet,” Rollins says. His tone is indignant, as if it’s a reasonable idea. “Sitwell’s gonna explode when he sees this.”

“Before or after Pierce kills you?” There’s a vein twitching somewhere behind Rumlow’s eye, and another in his forehead. Pierce. There’s a comfort, at least. He’s going to eviscerate the tech team for this. “If the Secretary sees you uploaded—”

“The Secretary was there when I thawed,” the asset says. He still won’t look up, but he tilts his head again, this time toward the non-tactical clothing he’d been wearing. “When I was outfitted.”

Rumlow stares. “And what did he do?”

“He took out his phone and took pictures,” says the asset.

Rollins’s howling drowns out all the curses Rumlow lets slip. “Fine. Fucking whatever. Just get dressed, dammit.”

The asset makes short work of it, though when he steps into his boots he just stands there, staring down at the laces.

“There a problem, princess?” Rumlow demands, zipping up his own vest. His patience is down to one last, fraying thread.

“They said you had to tie my boots,” the asset mumbles. He says more, but it’s unintelligible: all Rumlow catches is “not permitted” and “develop paternal instinct.”

And that’s it. Mission be damned, Rumlow’s out of here. “I’m gonna punch something,” he seethes, stalking toward the door. “Or get really drunk. Either way. Deal with this shit, Rollins.”

Before the door slams behind him, he can hear his second in command’s giggle. “Okay, baby, put your foot up—”

Rumlow doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.

**Author's Note:**

> The story title is a play on the Huggies Pull-Ups slogan: ["Mommy, wow! I'm a big kid now!"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xThU4tfmMg) I'm awful.


End file.
